


Party Tattoos

by ProfessorDrarry



Series: Drarry One Shot [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clubbing, Drabble Sequence, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco may also be trapped in his life, Harry Potter is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, Reverse Chronology, Song Lyrics, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-24 06:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21095210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: That colourful mess is just colourful regret. Write a postcard to you at eighty-four Tell them you'd never dream of living behind the door. Life was fun, full of love, full of hopeful smiles. Bet you wish you were here. But I'll see you in a while.





	1. Today

_we’re not bruised, they’re just party tattoos and the colourful mess is just colourful regret. - Dodie_

* * *

The mornings were the hardest part. Returning to the world where Draco wasn’t allowed to acknowledge that he was hurting. The place beyond the deep grey of his bed-curtains was currently his least favourite of all the places he visited. Especially when the curtains were like this. 

“Harry,” he whispered, poking the bare, sleeping shoulder where it was curled deeply under the heavy duvet; the rest of Harry’s body was curled around him too, but his shoulder was accessible without having to enter the fuzzy reality that was Outside the Blanket. “Harry,” he repeated more urgently. 

“Wha—” 

“It’s morning. You have to go.” 

“Shh,” Harry mumbled, reaching further around Draco’s back and nuzzling his face into his chest. “Sleeping.”  
  
“Harry,” Draco insisted.  
  
“Could just pretend it’s fine,” Harry said, kissing Draco’s clavicle with an open mouth. 

“We could also walk through fire while casting death curses at each other, but I don’t want to do _that _before 9 am either. Up.” 

His brusque tone was feigned, and he knew Harry would pick up on that; he just also didn’t have the current headspace to resist Harry. If he didn’t get him out of his room before the elves appeared with breakfast, he knew he’d end up going along with Harry’s plan. Most notably, he’d wind up agreeing that staying in bed all day was an excellent plan, that he could definitely ignore his parents and their very ridiculous hold on him, and that he could survive going back to the club for the fourth night in a row. 

He didn’t _want _to have to resist the urge to undo Harry as thoroughly as he had the night before, but the truth remained, he _did _have to resist. 

“Fine,” Harry replied a moment later, frustration and exhaustion fighting for a place in his voice as he dragged himself out of the covers. 

When he scrubbed his face and his feet hit the floor, Draco turned his face away before he saw the muscles in Harry’s back and arms hoist him out of the high bed and out of Draco’s day. He listened as Harry riffled around on the floor and found his clothes, closed his eyes tight against the hurt, and hauled the covers up around him to push out the chill of the suddenly too-big bed. 

He sensed Harry but did not see him until he came around the other side of the bed and stuck his head through the curtains there. “I’m going to kiss you goodbye now,” he announced, leaning down on the bed. Apparently, he was on his knees on the other side. “And I am going to keep kissing you goodbye until you stop being ashamed of me. I meant what I said last night.”  
  
True to his word, Draco’s face and senses were enveloped by a kiss that was not the swift peck of a man headed off to work. The type of kiss that made his head go fuzzy and his heart go soft and his senses disappear in the wake of his affection. Harry began to retreat, and Draco found himself flinging a hand out to hold his forearm and stall him. 

Head against Harry’s forehead, Draco whispered, “It’s not shame.”  
  
“It’s not your family either though, Draco,” Harry replied, pulling away again and kissing his forehead as he stood. “The sooner you admit that to yourself, the sooner we can get over this silly game you’re playing.” 

He didn’t pull his arm away from Draco’s grasp but he reached out to take the curtain and Draco instinctively let go. 

“You have a bruise on your neck,” Draco muttered, embarrassed. “Better heal it before you go.”  
  
Harry smiled, petted at the spot on his neck in a way that must have made it twinge with dull pain. “No,” he said a moment later, smirking. “No, don’t think I will.” 

He pulled the curtain closed, enveloping Draco in darkness once more. 


	2. The Night Before

_“There’s a yes, in your head, gotta find where it’s at. You’ll lose it in the morning but ignore that” - dodie _

* * *

“Draco!” Harry shouted, drawing him close and screaming directly into his ear so that he could be heard over the thumping beat of the music. “It’s too loud in here! I’m tired!”  
  
“You sound ancient!” Draco shouted back. 

“This is the third night we’ve been here! I AM ANCIENT! Can we please leave!?”  
  
“Subtle!” Draco replied, trying to sound salacious and failing since there was no way to communicate tone in the crowded club. 

He grabbed Harry’s hand off his waist and dragged him behind as he pushed through the crowd, unceremoniously freeing them from the undulating bodies. 

Draco was shocked by the cold night air, so different from the interior of the club. It had been a warm evening so he hadn’t brought a coat; if Harry hadn’t immediately wrapped his arms back around him as the door swung closed, he may have shivered. Harry smiled expectantly in the silence of the street, both a promise and a challenge. Draco sighed. 

“I never agreed to that,” Draco insisted. 

“It’s fine, either way. But you need to decide right now. We can just go grab another drink somewhere, and then you can take yourself back to your sad, empty bed in your great, gloomy castle. I told you, I won’t force you.”  
  
“Feels like I’m being forced,” Draco grumbled.  
  
Harry’s smile turned to a smirk. “That’s just because you’re a needy little brat who knows I’m right. We are dating. You and I. We are a couple. If you don’t admit it, I don’t come home with you again. If you don’t admit it, no more brilliant sex. And I meant it. I come over this time, I’m spending the night. I’m fucking exhausted from the back and forth. We aren’t eighteen. I need to sleep.” 

Draco smiled again, scrubbed his face, and then let himself look at Harry in the dim streetlight. The expression had the desired effect. Harry beamed, let go of Draco, and spun away, disappearing with a crack that left a ring in Draco’s ears that was completely unrelated to the club beats. 

“Bloody bastard,” Draco growled, following a moment later. 

Apparating straight into his bedroom never lost its thrill; it was a freedom and a loosening of a tether that disguised how confined he was. His brain wanted him to celebrate every time, but he stubbornly hung onto his anger at his family instead. Treating him like a teenager who’d been given a slightly later curfew hardly forgave them for trapping him in his own life. 

Harry Appararenting into his bedroom, however, was an entirely different thrill. The second Draco’s feet were under him, Harry had him pinned to the door, warm hands lifting his t-shirt over his head without a moment’s hesitation. As much as he hated to admit it, they were well practised at this by now. They knew all the steps. 

“You can be mad at me in the morning,” Harry whispered, attaching himself to Draco’s neck. “But for now, admit how happy you are that I’m going to be in your bed all night long. I won’t disappear because you made me.”  
  
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Draco admitted sadly, aware of how needy he sounded, how pathetic he felt. How small he was in Harry’s arms, even though he had almost a foot on him in height. He felt so helpless, still, and he hated it.

Harry clung tighter in response, nuzzling into Draco more, gripping him tight. “Relax. I’m going to hold you and keep you warm. You can worry about those things in the morning when you forget how safe you feel right now. Merlin, Malfoy. Why are you always so bloody freezing.” 

As if on command, Draco shivered. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, fine. I’m happy.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Harry,” Draco whimpered.  
  
“Draco,” Harry replied. “Don’t worry. I _know_.”  
  
Lifting Draco into his arms deftly, hands hooked beneath his bottom, pressing bare chest to bare chest, Harry took him to the bed. He drew the curtains around them, closing out the world and creating the fuzzy bubble where everything made sense.


	3. The Year Before

_Take a look at the clock only so long to go, Scrubbing smooth young skin saying I don't know, _

_Grab a bag, grab a bottle but leave the "what if?", _ _You'll see it in the morning after your kicks. - dodie_

* * *

Draco. Draco Malfoy.  _ Draco Draco Draco.  _

He said his name over and over again while staring up at the ceiling of his canopied bed. He said it until it made no sense. Said it until it lost all meaning. Said it until he believed the word was pointless and unchained, easy to swallow and unnecessary to his fundamental being. 

It worked long enough for him to fall asleep, most nights. Not this one, apparently, but still. He was willing to believe it was a thing that would work again. The problem, he reasoned, was that the earlier conversation with his mother was bouncing around his restless mind, and no matter how he tried to parse it differently, it was making him as furious as it had when she had waltzed into his room after dinner without knocking and without pausing to notice his hurried shoving of the racy novel he was reading beneath his pillow. 

_ I’ve made a decision. To lift the wards on your room. Last week was...unfortunate. For us both.  _

The adjustment of a sleeve, the tucking of a stray hair behind her ear. His mother, a woman steady in her grace and calm, was rattled. Frazzled. Uncomfortable. He knew why, and he tried not to smirk. She hadn’t exactly been prepared for the half-dressed wizard he’d tried to sneak through the front door the week before. 

_ I think it will be easier for me and your father if you at least  _ play  _ at decorum. During the day. The public mustn’t know how...depraved you are. I feel like a prudent match is still possible if you just...flaunt a little less. You know what rests on your marriage, son.  _

His mother rarely spoke to him about anything related to the status of the family. She was, most days, his ally. The conversation had unsettled him. He’d tried to stay home all week, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of Apparating straight out of his bedroom — a sure sign to his parents that he was on his way to fulfil his  _ degenerate  _ nature. But tonight, he was antsy. 

Finally, as midnight drew closer, he gave up on sleep. He leapt from the bed and threw a record on the player. The charms he had placed on his room around the time he’d started to wank would prevent anyone else from being disturbed, and the pounding beat of his favourite old disco music made up his mind. 

He primped in record time, settling quickly on a simple black tee, his favourite slim-fits, and a pair of well-worn brown wingtips that made him look like he’d tried. It was almost midnight, after all. He had no illusions about why he was headed to the club. It would be pointless to pretend otherwise. In fact, he spent less than five minutes shaping his hair, worn shorter these days, but still with enough to grip with two hands when needed. He knew what he looked like. He knew that, as per usual, it wouldn’t take long to pull. 

The thought made him sigh at the mirror; it wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. It worked for the night, for a moment, for the dance. For the amount of time it took to grind down and lock eyes, grab a hand and leave the club, Draco was content. For the few hours when his brain shut down in favour of friction and pull and pain and release, he could pretend it would be enough. 

But it never lasted. 

Before he could change his mind, he shook his head at himself, stood still and determined in the centre of his room, and took himself to the end of his newly lengthened leash. 

The inside of the club was rammed; Wednesdays were always like this. Full of fully primed youth, hungry and tired of pretending they were going to take the next weekend easy. It was just close enough to the Thursday crowd, and just far enough from the sadness of the Tuesday lot. The music, as usual, was terrible. Just an aimless beat and flickering lights, allowing for the simulation of dance as the couples and groups on the floor sought company that felt different outside these four walls. 

Draco wasted no time getting a shot, then hit the floor. He didn’t need alcohol to let loose and he let his arms drift above his head, getting into the music despite himself. It was loud and anonymous, just the cure to overthinking. The heat and the frenzy had him euphoric within fifteen minutes. 

He let his body drift where it was dragged. One minute, he was up against a tall ginger with terrible rhythm but very soft lips. The next, he found himself sandwiched between two very young blondes, neither of whom seemed to notice they had added a third to their tango. The near-seamless transition to a new ‘song’ had him writhing, back to front, against a shorter brunette who had bad breath but— if jeans could be believed— also had a giant cock. Draco moved back to the centre as the music picked up speed, let himself spin and float. Let himself breathe. Live. 

Suddenly, broad arms wrapped around him and settled hands against hips, drew him close. It was perfect, and Draco leaned back. He found an intoxicating mix of sweat and wood-scented cologne, and he fought to spin in this man’s arms. The arms resisted him, and suddenly, a mouth found its way to the edge of his ear, nibbling slightly before it began to club-whisper, loud and intimate.

“Don’t turn around,” it said. “Don’t. Just enjoy this for a minute. I’ve been watching you. I couldn’t stop myself from coming over.”    
  
Draco tried to turn into the words, nuzzle further into the nibble. A husky chuckle met him, teasing teeth back on the sensitive skin behind his ear. Draco stopped fighting, leaned back instead, let his hips grind down on the waist that was flush with his and was gratified when a moan returned to his still-close ear. 

“Don’t do that either,” the voice insisted. “I feel like you’ll regret it.”    
  
Draco chuckled this time, letting himself go at the music and the teeth, folding his hands over the ones beneath his own and swaying with the music. As the beat wound down, Draco pulled harder than he had before, spinning in the strong grip that was caught off-guard.   
  
And immediately froze. 

“Tried to warn you,” the voice shouted. 

The voice, which belonged — quite unmistakeably — to Harry Potter. Draco felt his mouth fall open unattractively, begged his erection to dissipate, and spun on a well-practised heel to getaway. He dipped expertly off the dance floor, making it to the edge just as his wrist was caught. The noise was muted out here, away from the DJ and nearer the dark and risky corners that made the club famous. 

“Malfoy, wait.” Potter was panting, his hair as unruly as ever. Draco paused long enough to notice that Potter was dressed in a ludicrous mesh top and leather pants. And that he looked so fit dressed like a stereotypical Gay Man that Draco would likely never stop imagining him dressed this way. 

“You never fucking saw me, do you hear me?” Draco shouted back. “I’ll ruin you.”    
  
“Sure,” Potter replied casually. “I meant what I said, though. I’ve been watching you. You...everyone was watching you. Can’t believe I actually got close enough to…”    
  
“Look, Potter, fuck off. I mean it. I’m not here for any of your little games. We aren’t children.”    
  
Whatever comeback had been poised on Potter’s lips disappeared. He couldn’t see an expression change in the semi-darkness and flashing lights, but the grip intensity on his wrist was unmistakable. Draco braced himself for a punch. 

It didn’t come. 

A blink of an eye and Draco found himself back in Potter’s arms, wrist free in favour of two hands in his hair. A mouth that was so hungry, Draco already felt devoured. His traitorous cock beat against his trousers and his lungs released an embarrassing moan as Potter kissed him. He fought back for only a moment until suddenly a tongue joined his. His hands had other plans at that point and found their way to the smooth, supple leather that encased Potter’s ass. 

“Just once,” Potter breathed, pulling back. “I can tell you want it too.”    
  
The Apparation was barely a thought.    
  
He was good at this, most of the time, but the shocked silence of his bedroom met him with the understanding that he’d just brought his childhood enemy home with him from the club with distinctly un-childlike intentions in mind. It was in the dim light, the silence, the cold air that he immediately leapt backwards and away from Potter’s hungry mouth.    
  
Unfortunately — fortunately? He wasn’t sure — Draco had moved toward his bed. Harry took the sign the other way, growling and pulling the mesh off his own body, revealing a smooth, defined body that was so unlike Draco’s near-starved skinniness that his mouth filled with want before he’d even processed what was about to happen.   
  
“Your bed has curtains,” Potter murmured, stalking forward as Draco backed up. “Are wizard beds supposed to have curtains?”    
  
Draco laughed a startled laugh against his will as he glanced briefly at the bed he spent too much time in these days. “Rooms in old houses are big. Cold. Just...practical.”    
  
“Hm,” Potter replied, gripping Draco by the shoulders and pushing firmly. “Fascinating. Look, these trousers….they are impossible. To get off, I mean.”    
  
In the dim, Draco could have sworn that Potter was blushing. The sight sent a jolt to both his stomach and his cock. Draco sat heavily on the bed as the sensations grew too much, but his ever-ready mouth had a quip to throw before he had thought too hard, and he reached out to pull Potter closer by the trousers. A moment later, and he was standing between Draco’s legs. He managed to work the enclosure open, dragging down the zipper so slowly that it was Potter’s turn to moan. 

“Well, Potter,” he simpered. “If that isn’t the worst line I’ve ever heard.”    
  
“Harry,” Potter hissed. “ _ Harry _ . Just...it’s just one night.”    
  
Draco looked up at him, pausing his movements and extending his hiss. 

“Please,  _ Draco _ ,” Potter moaned. 

And for the first time in five years, the word — at least on his lips — had meaning. 

Draco launched himself forward and refused to acknowledge how terrible that made this particular decision. 

* * *


	4. The Only Day That Matters

_we'll regret it when we're old with wrinkled up skin. - yup, still dodie_

* * *

By the time Draco finally coerced himself out of bed and into clothing after Harry's annoyingly endearing departure, the elves had been and gone, leaving the usual ominous tray of breakfast with a side of guilt-tripping on the desk. The basket of pastries only contained a sensible assortment of healthy muffins, which reminded him that he was facing a very long day full of stakeholder meetings and board overseeing. The daily schedule that sat beneath his coffee mug confirmed the muffin prophecy and he sighed a weary sigh as he settled in. 

The coffee he drank was black and too strong, but he choked it down with the resolve of an ancient seer. He’d need every ounce of caffeine to survive sitting beside his father for the entire day. He picked up the memorandum before it got dripped on by the errant coffee pot, and found a note on the back, written in a familiar script, careful and neat despite the obvious afterthought of the message. 

_ Just you today until 4. Don’t forget — tea with the Driscoll’s and their daughter at the house. Don’t be late. _

He searched his mind frantically, trying to recall the face of his father’s latest desperate attempt to marry him off despite all the gayness. Driscoll. Penelope Driscoll. Kind enough, but exceedingly dull. 

He stared at the framed photograph on the wall, one he’d taken himself of the _ Jardin Luxembourg _in Paris; standing on top of the bridge, he’d managed a pretty decent shot of the water. The first time Harry had noticed it, he’d spun around to grin at Draco. 

“Lucky I wasn’t there,” he’d teased. “Might have pushed you in.”  
  
“Pretty sure that’s illegal,” he’d replied. Harry had just laughed, made some joke about how that just made it ‘more fun’, and then tackled Draco into the covers. 

Draco closed his eyes tightly against the memory and let his head fall to the desk beside the largely untouched breakfast tray. He felt ill. He tried to imagine going to his father and saying he couldn’t do the meetings today because he was hungover and lovesick and acutely lonely. The thought made a pathetic giggle bubble up in his mind, imagining a world where he just owled Harry instead, met him for lunch in the little parkette he’d discovered last year. 

Owl Harry. 

He sat up quickly. The solution was so simple it was ludicrous, so stupid it felt perfect despite its reckless roots. He pulled out the drawer and found a scrap of parchment and a pen. 

_ Can’t explain, but can you come for tea? 4 pm. Dress nicely. _

_ _ \- Draco _ _

He could, of course, have explained. But the niggling thing in the back of his mind that knew how fragile this thing with Harry was felt that it might just be better to surprise him and ask forgiveness later. The letter that was returned to him a short time later made Draco burst out laughing, every doubt that had settled in his chest evaporating in an instant. He wanted to run to Harry immediately; the note he received in reply contained zero questionings, no hesitation. Just a sense of self and sureness that was obviously the central tenet of his personality. Draco supposed eventually he’d get used to it. _  
_

_ Sure, _ was all it said. Well, that and: _ Fancy fancy or just regular fancy? You know what. Never mind. You get me as I decide to dress ;) _

_ \- H _

For the rest of the day, Draco was antsy, though the grin on his face never really dissipated. He’d chosen Muggle clothing, a smart pair of soft wool trousers and a matching dark grey vest over a crisp black shirt, and everyone at the first table he’d sat down at had been appropriately shocked in their stuffy robes. He had no idea why, since he’d been wearing largely street clothes since leaving Hogwarts the second time. Upon discovering that suits were far sexier than any robe he would ever muster, he’d exchanged most of his clothing. It had started as aa subtle nod to his year in Paris living in a Muggle community and trying to pretend the war hadn’t happened. Now, it was more a large fuck-you style subversion of everything his father wanted him to become. 

Still, he sat through the board meeting and the shareholder’s session at the bank, survived a stuffy lunch at his great aunt’s club, and made it all the way through the library tour where the new wing would be dedicated the following month. He saved up all his quips and jabs, kept his mouth shut and didn’t ruffle feathers. 

He figured he’d need all his patience for stupid Pureblood arguments by tea-time. 

He waltzed into the central wing, where the Houseelf that had taken his umbrella had directed him. Which made sense, since that’s where all the largest paintings were. It was the part of the Manor that had been least used by the Voldemort Vanguard, and therefore, had been the least touched by his father’s attempts to pay off their reparation debts through selling heirlooms and relics. He found his father already settled into a high backed chair, some sort of amber liquid in a glass before him — cognac, it seemed, if Lucius had actually bothered with the correct glassware for once.   
  
“Father,” he said cooly, settling down across from him and smoothing out his hair.   
  
“Draco,” was his reply, a perfectly arched eyebrow the only concession to his disapproval of his chosen outfit. “A productive day?”  
  
“By whose standards?”  
  
“Your mother will be along shortly,” Lucius interjected, ignoring Draco.  
  
“And the Driscoll’s?”  
  
“Just flooed. They’re freshening up in the guest room.”  
  
Draco nodded, trying to contain his gulp to his throat and make no noise as he poured himself a generous glass of port from the cart to his side. Which earned him another eyebrow from his father. 

_ Relax, daddykins, _ he thought, smirking into his drink, _ your afternoon is about to get much more interesting. _

A moment later, the tall and elegant Madame Driscoll floated into the room, with her stout and dour husband in tow. Behind them both, in a lovely green lace dress, came Penelope, looking watery and nervous, like she may pass out at any moment. Draco instinctively stood, greeting their guests in the traditional way, settling them down with drinks, guiding his mother to her chair when she arrived a moment later and then glancing at his watch as sneakily as he could. Ten to four, as predicted. 

The conversation floated around him, dull and so scripted that he could interact and seem like he was participating, while his entire mind was actually on the ticking of the clock that was bringing him closer and closer to his ridiculous decision. 

When the front doorbell rang out in the large hall, everyone jumped, but Draco hid his jolt by standing and carefully placing his glass. 

“Goodness, who could that be,” Narcissa asked him primly, clearly already on guard. 

“There’s just one more joining us for tea,” he replied casually, walking to the corridor and breezing past the elf who was headed to the same place. No one said anything as he left and he exhaled a held breath as the conversation restarted at his back. His parents were hard to shock; he was counting on that trait to save him now. He whipped open the door, startling a casually staring Harry Potter, whose hands were stuck in smart black trousers, paired with trim black shoes and a dark green button-down that was, miraculously, meticulously tucked in. Draco collapsed in relief and a great calm washed over him. This, if nothing else, was the right choice.  
  
“Oh, hey,” Harry said, slight worry creasing his brow as he stepped forward and gripped Draco by the elbows. “Hi, sorry, I swear I tried to be perfectly on time. Wait, I am on time. Did-did I dress wrong, I can go change, I didn’t mean to—Draco, hey. Look at me. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he whispered. “Absolutely nothing. For the first time, in a really, _ really _ long time. Thanks.”  
  
“For what?” Harry chuckled, wrapping his arms fully around Draco’s waist and pushing his hair back off his forehead. 

“For just...that shirt. And not asking anything. And coming even though I was an ass this morning. And always, really.”  
  
“Well. Not _always_.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“Draco, I know you aren’t used to this. So I’m going to keep fucking saying this. You. Are. My. Boyfriend. I’ll say it until you believe me, until you agree. This is what partners _do_. They show up without asking questions. Dressed appropriately.”  
  
“I'd half convinced myself you were going to turn up in a banana costume,” Draco murmured, embarassed.  
  
“It’s in my pocket, just in case,” Harry teased, winking ludicrously and releasing Draco. “Alright, lead on. Take me to my certain doom.”  
  
Draco boldly took his hand, exhaled loudly, turned determinedly into the corridor and said, “Right. Get ready.”  
  
They entered the room hand in hand, and all conversation fell silent as he directed Harry to the setee beside him.  
  
“Mum. Dad. This is Harry Potter,” Draco said pointlessly, his voice firm and sure. “I know you know him, but. Penelope. This is my boyfriend. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced him to you until now.”  
  
No one said a word, looking at each other in such palpable discomfort that Draco had the inappropriate urge to laugh. Harry, beside him, smiled awkwardly and gave a small wave. 

“Uh, hi.”  
  
“Today,” Draco continued. “I had myself removed from your will, Father. The bank will send you the papers. I am entitled to _ Grandmere’s _ money still, and while you can technically block it, Mother, I have a feeling you won’t. I resign from all boards. I will not be marrying. Not anyone. I think this family has had quite enough of other people telling it what it is and what it should be, don’t you think?”  
  
Time passed slowly for a moment; he could have sworn that his mother’s blinks had slowed. His father had not seemed to move since he’d returned to the room. None of the Driscoll family would meet each other’s eyes.  
  
Finally, it was—unexpectedly—Penelope who broke the tension. “Well, I’m glad one of us has realised that there are more important things in this world than a family name and an appropriate match. Draco, if you are looking for a flatmate, I think I’m going to be needing one in London. When I move there. Next month. To finish my art course.”  
  
“Sounds like a perfect situation,” Draco replied after clearing his throat. “Would you like to join us for lunch, Penelope?”  
  
“It’s Poppy, actually. And yes, that sounds lovely. It’s glorious to meet you, Mr Potter,” she added, reaching out to help Harry up. “Thank you for saving Malfoy here. We’ve all been wondering when some bloke would finally make him sack up and get out of this hellscape.”  
  
“Penelope!” her mother gasped.  
  
“Oh, shove it, _ mumsy _ , I warned you that you had a month to convince them to let Draco be my beard. Your time just expired. I’m quite over being a simpering little rose. I’ll just go with penniless artist and ironically start doing opium, like a nineteenth-century poet.”  
  
Draco now _ did _ laugh, and Poppy flashed him a wink and a smile that immediately endeared her to him. She offered both her arms.   
  
“So,” she said as Draco and Harry grinned at each other and joined her. “Tell me, Harry. How’d you convince him to loosen up enough to sleep with you.”  
  
Harry barked out in laughter as they left the scandalised adults behind.   
  
“Well,” he began. “Initially, clubs. But the bigger win was kissing goodbye, apparently.”  
  
Poppy wrinkled her nose at him. “Disgusting,” she insisted. “I love it.”  
  
Behind her back, Draco felt his arm get a light squeeze and smiled. He’d have time to regret this, one day.

It just wouldn’t be today.


End file.
